


Cuddling Somewhere

by TheOtherCourse (kanevixen)



Series: Tom and Abigail Series [11]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Menstruation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanevixen/pseuds/TheOtherCourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In July 2011, Immediately following the Avengers shoot (moved from April-August to January-June).Tom Hiddleston and his costar, Abigail Morgan are drawn into a very private and torrid affair. </p>
<p>Abby's visited by her monthly friend.</p>
<p>
  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuddling Somewhere

“Abby, come over… please.”

“No.”

“Will you let me come see you then?”

“No.”

“You’re being silly, darling.”

“No.”

I could hear the laughter in his voice, his tone lilting up a decibel with the smile that I knew he displayed. “I’m on my way. Let me in when I get there.”

“No,” but he disconnected as I said the syllable again, irritatingly so.

I had my reasons for not wanting to see him, good, valid reasons. I was feeling fragile, angry with him (don’t ask me why…), cranky and tired. It was my time of the month and I was more than a lot agitated by the opposite sex. When’s the last time a man had to deal with cramps, bloating, migraines, or mood swings?

There’s something both comforting and stress inducing about birth control pills. Comforting because I always know when my next period will be. Stress inducing because I always know when my next period will be. Having a constant reminder or countdown to D-day came with its own struggles. Knowing when I would be bloated, bitchy and horny like a cat in heat with my arse stuck up in air came with its own pressures. My symptoms were not limited or mutually exclusive. Some months, I would be asymptomatic, where other months I would carry all the PMS pitfalls all at once.

This month, apparently, I was angry with the opposite sex, a solid complication when involved with one, as I sort of was, I think. The anti-Christ knocked on the door nearly an hour after he rung off on me. “Abby, open the door.”

“No!”

Without laying eyes on him, I could tell that annoying smile was back, “Abby, I brought chips and chocolate. Open the door.”

Okay maybe not the anti-Christ, just one of the devil’s minions… he was still evil. He was male and therefore evil. I opened the door and looked up at him sheepishly. I admit it, I wanted the chips and the chocolate; I could take or leave him. “Hand them over.”

He cocked his right eyebrow and smirked at me lopsidedly. “Oh, I don’t think so, you little minx. I come with the food because there’s enough in here,” he held up a big brown sack and pointed to it, “to feed all the people milling about London.”

I pouted at him with my bottom lip protruding as I stepped aside to let him into my flat. He leaned into me, brushing his lips along my cheek with affection. Feeling every year of my maturity, I made a face at him behind his back when he turned into my flat. I’m quite sure the widened eyes and the tongue sticking out between my lips were attractive. It almost made me feel better, but only a little bit.

Smugly, he queried, “Where did you set up your nest, living room or bedroom?”

I hated, hated, hated that he knew me so well. Sulking, I pointed in the direction of my bedroom. “I don’t like you.”

“Yes, I know, you’ve made that abundantly clear. We’ll have to move it to the living room. Go, put in Pretty Woman or Dirty Dancing, whichever this month is, in the blu-ray and I’ll grab everything else.”

He placed the bag of goodies on my coffee table, moving the magazines I kept there out of the way. Incredulously, I asked, “How did you know?” I crossed my arms over my sore, heavy breasts. Feeling vulnerable, I was embarrassed that he knew my cycle.

“Aside from dropping everything you come in contact with for the past three days, you keep your pill supply on my bathroom vanity, and your tears over a Carlton Cards advert on the telly?” I hung my head in shame, avoiding his gaze. It was true; I was guilty of all of that and probably more. He moved closer to me, his face adopting a predatory look. “Much to my pleasure and yours,” he cupped my face between his elegant hands. “You’ve been begging me to fuck you whenever we’re together.”

“You’re an arsehole.”

He smiled triumphantly, “Well established… Your body gives you away. Your orgasm, every single glorious one, is easier pull from you. Amazing!” He caressed my cheek with his thumbs, his male pride rankling my back.

“Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?”

“Yes but you weren’t complaining when I made you come a third time last night.”

In an overly dramatic way, I rolled my eyes. “Your fucking ego… You know that’s not about you. That’s my bits having extra blood strumming through there.”

"Touche!” He placed a kiss upon my lips before disappearing into my bedroom. As I was loading Two Weeks Notice (to spite him) into the player, Tom returned from my bedroom with my pillows, my pink duvet, a box of tissues, and my water bottle. Setting the bedclothes on the sofa and the tissues on the coffee table, he disappeared again into the kitchen to refill the bottle with hot water, and to fetch a glass of water and a couple of paracetamols.

He handed me the pills and the glass. “Take these.”

“I don’t forgive you.” I swallowed the pills with a big swig of water.

He waved me over to the sofa to claim my spot, patiently smiling for me. “I know.”

Curling up on one end of the sofa, I selfishly hugged the duvet and pillows to me. He placed the hot water bottle along my lower abdomen for me, over the source of my cramps. Using the remote, I set the movie going and started to dig into the food that Tom brought. Hating him and liking him in equal measure, he settled on the other side of the sofa, giving me my space. We sat in relative silence watching the movie and enjoying what was left of the warm chips with vinegar and ketchup.

Finishing the last of his chips, he asked, “This animosity you’re feeling is it specific to me, or is all of humanity on your shit list?”

I slid a sideways hostile look in his direction. “I hate you most of all,” I said with a little less conviction. With his sensible patient nature, he was navigating the unpredictable turbulent nature of my hormones with grace and acceptance.

Smirking again, not at all surprised by my statement, he nodded knowingly. “I thought so.”

Ignoring drunk Sandra Bullock and deadpan Hugh Grant for the moment, I turned to him. I’d cocooned myself into the corner of the sofa, knees drawn close to my chest with my feet on the cushions, toes gripping the edge. I propped an elbow on my knees and put my cheek against my hand. “Why are you here? What’s with the persistence?”

“Last month you were angry that I steered clear, when you asked me. If you are upset with me whether I see your beautiful face or not, I’d rather see you,” he winked. “Then one of us is happy.”

Reluctant to hand him the win, I shrugged and turned my attention back to the movie and Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Charming bloke, this one, until, “Abby, you are sharing that.” He pointed to the chocolate in my hand.

I shook my head. “You brought this for me in my delicate state.”

He laughed at me. “I’ll allow you to be annoyed with me when I didn’t do anything to warrant it. I draw the line at hoarding the chocolate.”

When I didn’t pass a few squares of the candy bar willingly, he launched at me across the sofa, wrestling the Cadbury’s package out of my hands. “TOM!” I screamed as he snatched the purple package from my grasp, holding it away from me in his left hand. I struggled for purchase on his shirt, shoulders, anything within reach to get it back. All the while, he continued chuckling at me.

“Abby, we share.” He kissed me smoothly again to stop my mumbled protests against his lips. The overwhelming delicious sensation of his tongue sliding against mine was better than any chocolate, heady, dizzying. I melted against him, waving the white flag in the wake of thrumming sexual need and the need for sensitivity.

I moaned with the loss of his touch on my lips when pulled away. His eyes were heavy lidded, his lips red and swollen, appearing as dazed as I felt, the effects of our sweet kiss. “Are you going to behave now?” I nodded, subdued by his attentions.

Moving the pillows to the other side of sofa, he laid down, lining his body to the back of the sofa. He pulled me back into the comforting embrace of his arms, covering us both with the duvet. Our legs threaded around each other. I sighed, releasing the bitterness from earlier and snuggling into his chest. With random nuzzling along my neck, his warmth encompassed me.

For the rest of the evening, Tom kept me cuddled in his arms to ward off the cramps and make me feel better, the chocolate forgotten on the coffee table.


End file.
